


Eight Days with Morrell

by erikaehm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Condoms, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Minor Character Death, Pack Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erikaehm/pseuds/erikaehm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight moments in the life Derek Hale and Angelique Morrell build together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> For my Maggy, who I love with everything I have. Posting this for her early.

_AN: So I’d like to wish a happy Hanukkah to all my Jewish readers and a super happy Hanukkah to my lovely friend, SL. I hope you enjoy ladybird!_

_One_

 

It starts somewhere between realizing she’s like Deaton and understanding that she’s the one who kills Gerard. There’s a level of admiration there for a woman who seems so plain; ‘Miss Morrell’ is a perfect wolf in sheep’s skin, all brutal ferocity kept tightly reigned in under a mask of cool calm, packaged in a long legged, smooth skinned body. There’s a part of him that wants to bare his neck to her. She’d be a beautiful alpha, he can tell, and his insides twist with _need_.

 

She understands things in a way most people don’t, and he thinks it has something to do with her being a counsellor. She keeps his pups and the humans, too, focused. She has ever since Matt died. He can smell her on them sometimes, a soft imprint from where she’s touched a shoulder or patted a knee. He watches the pups and feels glad that they have someone they can talk to. He’s not good at talking, not about things like feelings, things that _matter_.

 

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. They’re at Deaton’s office, and Morrell – Angelique – is perched on the good doctor’s desk, eyebrows raised at him. Deaton is somewhere in the back room, and Derek focuses on the quiet murmur of the man’s voice as he soothes a scared dog. It smells sick, like it’s not going to be getting better. He lets his senses swirl on that, feels the way the tension makes him stiff, hardens the odd twitch-smile of his lips back into a scowl.

 

She doesn’t look particularly impressed. “Derek? Did you need something?” She prompts, crossing one leg over the other. His eyes are drawn to them. They’re smooth and she has knots in her calves, thick muscles from wearing heels. Capable legs. Legs that can run, and chase, and hunt, and...”Derek.” She says again, voice a little firmer. He darts his eyes up to her face.

 

He knows how to do this. It’s not that hard. He knows he’s good looking, and can be charming when he wants to be. He tries for a smile, letting just a bit of tooth show. Derek parts his lips and prepares to ask what he’s come here to ask, but then. Deaton _damn him_ slips into the reception area, mild surprise on his face. “Derek, something I can help you with?”

 

His jaw clicks shut and he glares, shoulders shrugging stiffly underneath his leather jacket. “Just. No. Sorry. I was – books.” He’s not used to stumbling over his words and he can feel his neck heating with his embarrassment. Deaton looks like he’s about to ask something else, so the Alpha turns on his heel and makes a hasty escape, nearly bowling Scott over in the process.

 

God _damn it_. When did this become so _hard_?

 

I

 

It’s actually an accident the second time. She’s walking through the woods with her dog – a medium sized, shaggy brown thing she calls Mooch – and he’s walking through them, trying to clear his head. He’s been hopping between the house and the train depot, and he’s starting to realize that just _maybe_ these places are...not good for Isaac’s mental health. He’s racking his brain for ideas on where he could work, what he’s good at, which is. He has a degree. Two, actually. Math and History. Not to mention, he can fix cars. Laura taught him how when she got the job at the mechanics in New York.

 

“Derek.” She calls when she sees him, and he startles. He wasn’t expecting anybody else to be walking. It’s early morning, and the fog is still rolling over damp grass. “What are you doing out here?” She asks, and the dog runs over to snuffle along his legs. He offers it a pat to the head, self conscious in his track pants and black tank top.

 

“Thinking.” He says, tersely. “I didn’t think anybody else would be out.” He realizes he’s coming off as a grump and adds, “I didn’t know you walked here.”

 

“I don’t usually. Decided it was time for a change.” There’s a blip in her heart, a lie, but he ignores it. Everyone has their secrets.

 

(His big secret is that he’s kind of terrified. He has no fucking clue what he’s doing. The last time he tried to do this he was a boy and it ended with his _everything_ being torn away. Derek Hale does not _do this_ , he picks up nice girls for nice nights then leaves once he’s sure they’re asleep because he’s an _asshole_ and he can’t _do this_.)

 

He grits his teeth against his discomfort. He is an _alpha_ , damn it. He has bigger, badder things to be scared of. He can do this. He can. “Do you maybe –“

 

Her dog is pissing on his shoe.

 

He slowly lowers his chin to his chest, staring red eyed at the mutt at his feet. Mooch stares back at him, all chocolate brown puppy eyes that are clearly telling him _I do not care_. He sucks his lips into his mouth, feeling his fangs bite into them.

 

Angelique is laughing.

 

Derek squares his shoulders, levels the mutt with a growl, then turns and disappears into the woods, ears almost as dark as red as his eyes. _Damn it._

I

 

Derek’s only here to pick up his pups. Jackson’s going through his _I’m a fucking douchebag_ phase again, and is refusing to let the others carpool with him to the house. Which is fine. Derek wants to give Stiles a book he found anyway, so that works. The human is his go between, from his pack to Scott – the pup _still_ won’t join him, which is _frustrating_ – and he doesn’t mind sharing what he knows, when he knows things.

 

“Derek.”

 

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck and he resists the urge to slink back to his car and hide with his tail tucked between his legs. “Miss Morrell.” He says stiffly, shoulders hunching up as he turns to face her.

 

She hitches an eyebrow, looking amused. “You’re not a student here, Angelique is fine. They have detention.” She explains, stroking a hand over the hood of his car. “Won’t be out until four. Miss Reyes wanted to call you, but her phone was taken away.”

 

“All of them?”

 

“Aside from Miss Martin, yes. She’s just finishing up in the science room.”

 

He shoves his clenched hands into his pockets, struggling not to crush his keys in the process. “Oh. Do you maybe.” He rolls his shoulders, forces them to lower a bit. He knows he looks standoffish and people are starting to stare. “I was wondering if you wanted...” The words don’t exactly want to come out of his mouth and he can practically picture Laura laughing her ass off at him. His sister always did have a mean streak like that.

 

It’s not Laura laughing, though. It’s Angelique. Low and gentle, eyes warm as she nods at him. “I would love to have coffee with you. Tomorrow after school? I’ve got an appointment today.”

 

His jaw creaks open to hang in an ‘o’.

 

“I should be done by three thirty. I’ll see you then?” She calls over her shoulder and he’s aware that she’s _walking away_.

 

He scrambles for control, clicking his jaw shut. “Sounds good.” He croaks.

 

_Damn it._ How does she do that so _easily_ when he’s so _bad_ at this?

 

Still, he supposes he can’t really complain. He schools his features back into his usual blank, sour mask. He has a _date_.


	2. Day Two

_Two_

She’s late for their date, but Derek’s not exactly worried. Lord knows he’s been late once or twice. Or five times. When you’re the alpha of a werewolf pack full of teenager’s life likes to throw curveballs. When you’re the impromptu therapist of those _same_ werewolves...life doesn’t stop throwing. Sometimes she gets caught up in her work or her studying which is to be expected, so Derek doesn’t worry.

 

So he settles onto the couch beside Isaac - they have an apartment now, which...Major thanks to Mrs McCall for her lovely letter of recommendation when Scott had asked for one – and sets a book on his knee, content to read. When the clock ticks past five thirty and hits six he sighs and stands.

 

“Gonna go pick her up?” Isaac asks, staring balefully at his math homework that Derek _refuses_ to do for him.

 

“Yep. There’s a frozen pizza in the freezer or money in the cupboard if you want to get takeout.” Derek shrugs into his jacket. “Don’t stay up too late tonight, I could hear you texting Erica at three this morning.” He warns, jabbing a finger in Isaac’s direction as he pulls his shoes on.

 

“Sorry.” The beta mutters, ducking closer to his book. “Have fun.”

 

Derek shakes his head. It’s still a work in progress with Isaac. “I’ll call you if I’m not coming back tonight. Lock the door behind me.” They’ve settled into a mostly easy living arrangement. Derek is not Isaac’s father, something the pup recognizes, even if he has been acting more _parental_ since his name has been cleared and they’re not squatting anymore. He pauses at the elevator, relaxing only when he hears the lock click on the door.

 

The light is on in her office and he knows that the doors to the school will have been locked, only able to open from the inside. Her phone goes straight to voicemail and he knows she has it turned off. He’s still not worried. He takes a few steps away from the building before _scaling_ it to the second floor. Her window creaks when it opens and she jerks away from her desk, eyes darting to his face. “Derek? What time is it?” She twists back around, face pulling into a grimace. “Sorry.”

 

“What is that?” He nods to the stack of papers on her desk, hovering behind her chair, hands closing lightly over her shoulders.

 

“Alan found a book on that wolfsbane we stumbled into last month.” Boyd had stumbled into it, actually, and had nearly gone crazy. None of the wolves had realised it could be used as an aphrodisiac. Derek still had nightmares.

 

“Latin?” He asks, voice sympathetic as he starts kneading the tight muscles of her back.

 

“Yes.” She could get Lydia to do it, she knows, but since the incident with the Kanima, she’s been trying to brush up on her Latin. She doesn’t want to make a mistake like that ever again. “I can put it away for tonight. It’ll still be here in the morning and we know enough to stay away from that bane now.” She tilts her head against the back of her chair, smiling up at him. Her eyes are sore from staring at the pages so long and she’s been munching on the fruit and cereal she keeps here. She’s not hungry anymore.

 

But the school is empty and she has a _different_ hunger she knows Derek can satisfy.

 

She can see the moment he smells it. His eyes get dark and his lips part into a smile, thumbs biting into her tense shoulders just that bit harder. She shoves away from the desk again and stands, twisting out of his grip. “Sit.” She commands, nodding at the chair.

 

He hitches a brow at her, settling into the warm chair. “Woof.”

 

She loves this side of him. She’s not one of his pups, or someone he has to protect and around her, Derek drops his guard. He even _laughs_ sometimes. She’s sure his pups would have a heart attack if they could see their alpha unwinding. She plans on making _sure_ they see it.

 

She watches him as she shimmies her underwear off. He’s panting to himself, jeans straining over his erection, and she laughs as she flicks a foot; the underwear go flying, and he follows them with his eyes until they hit a filing cabinet. “I’m not hungry.”

 

“Me neither.” He’s undoing his belt and zipper, and she tosses a condom at his head. It hits him between the eyes and he _growls_ at her.

 

It doesn’t bother her. She’s used to him using his wolf rather than his words. “You’re going to have to be careful.” She tells him, sliding one knee to the outside of his leg, pressing it into the chair. “Don’t want us to fall.” The chair bends backwards once her other leg is up, buckling slightly under their combined weight.

 

Derek twists them back around with his legs and her stomach jerks at the feeling. The chair is precarious, creaking softly as he grips the desk with both hands. She wonders at the picture they make – her straddling him in the desk chair, him gripping the table to keep them up. They’re both still almost fully dressed, though her skirt is hiked up and she can feel his thumbs straining to stroke against the curve of her ass, needy.

 

She presses her forehead to him as she starts to press _down_ , moaning lightly at the way he fills her. It feels different, with her on top. Like he goes deeper, her weight dragging him in as far as she can. His thighs tremble as he growls, huffing a hot breath across her face. “Fuck, Angie.” He hisses, and she _hates_ that nickname from anyone else, but from _him_...

 

“Derek.” She mutters in response, rocking her hips down against his.

 

He can’t thrust against her like this, trapped by her body and the fact that this isn’t quite _safe_. Instead he has to sit and _take_ it, try to keep himself still as she fucks him. He manages to get his mouth on her breast, biting through her shirt and bra. She pulls his hair for it, laughing as she rolls down faster, twisting her hips in small circles to grind her clit against him as hard as she can.

 

Sex isn’t new to either of them, but the thrill of doing this someplace they _shouldn’t_ makes it all rise fast. Her pace stumbles, gets rougher when she’s close, and she hears the metal of her desk groan as his hands clench. She forces her eyes to open and meet his, wanting to see him come undone with her. Her lips part and she tries to stifle her cry, turning it into a strangled croak as white explodes in her vision.

 

He manages to stay silent, although his face is _beautiful_ , expression tiptoeing that fine line between pain and pleasure as he hunches as close as he can, shoulders wracked with shudders.

 

“Morrell what the Hell are you-“

 

Her head swivels to the side and she stares at Finstock, a little wild eyed, breathing deeply.

 

“Do I even want – _how_ are. What are – you know what? Have fun, use condoms, and be safe. I saw nothing and will try to _not_ bring this up at the next staff meeting. Goodnight. Don’t forget to turn off the lights, and if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go _bleach my eyes_. Locks, Morrell. They’re these wonderful little creations, practically a gift from God. Remember that.” Bobby grabs the file he’d asked her to pull from the small table beside the door, before making his exit.

 

“Fuck.” She sighs, afterglow ruined as she drops her forehead to Derek’s shoulder.

 

Derek’s shoulder which is _shaking in laughter_. She pulls back enough to punch him in the arm, climbing off and feeling satisfied with the wet mess in his lap. “You owe me dinner.”

 

“All I wanted was dinner. Chinese?”

 

“Italian.”


	3. Day Three

_Three_

She’s never asked him over to her house before. Not because she’s bothered by the thought of him being here, just that she’s never thought about it. They go out more often than they stay in and when they stay in, he’s usually worrying over the pups. Their sex has been confined to his two bedroom apartment, nights ending with eating ice cream out of plastic bowls. Isaac’s gone on those nights – probably to Scott’s.

 

But the pups are partying at Derek’s place tonight – not really a party, it’s more a movie marathon – and Derek needs some _grown up time._ So she’d offered her house instead. He’d been mildly, pleasantly surprised, and she’d slipped him a piece of paper with directions.

 

She knows when he pulls up because Mooch is going crazy at the front window, baying as loud as he can.

 

Her house is a small two bedroom bungalow, old looking. Quiet where it’s nestled between thick trees and shrubs, just off a main road. It’s almost _quaint_ , with a calm exterior that reveals nothing but reminds you of coffee on a porch swing and listening to rainy nights. He knocks on the door and listens to her call ‘come in’. He tosses Mooch a customary snarl that has the mutt wiggling against his legs, excited now that he realizes Derek is _friend_ and not fire hydrant.

 

He follows his nose after taking his shoes off, tensing when he finds her.

 

She’s crouched in front of the fire place, quietly stacking logs. The flames are lapping near her hands but she’s unworried, working with the fire as efficiently as she does everything else. It makes her skin glow and her eyes shine, flames reflecting off of them as she watches orange and red blur together.

 

It makes _his_ skin crawl with discomfort. He must make some noise because she turns to look at him, surprised. She sees what he’s staring at and cringes, sympathetic. “I’m sorry. This was stupid of me, I wasn’t thinking. I can put it out if you want.”

 

The fireplace has old ash in it. She uses it often.

 

He takes a slow breath through his nose. The fire here smells _alive_ , strong. Not like the residual stench that clings to the old Hale house, the one that has seeped so deep into the land there, he doesn’t think it’ll go away until they demolish _everything_. “It’s fine.” He says. It doesn’t quite feel fine, but he’s twenty three years old. It’s time to get over it.

 

She must sense it in him. Or, she might just be very good at her job. He forgets that she has a masters in behavioural studies. Angelique doesn’t say anything more about it and warms her hands on the flames for a moment before rising, brushing her thick hair back over her shoulders. “Would you like some coffee?”

 

“Sounds good.” There isn’t a television in this sitting room, but the smell of her is strong under the smell of pine wood. There’s a low couch in front of the mantle, a worn afghan tossed over the back. Books are scattered in organized chaos, pages marked with colorful bookmarks made from paper and strips of fabric. She has a lot of shelves, full of leather-bound novels. French, English, and a few languages he doesn’t understand. He strokes his hand across a row as he follows her into the kitchen, liking the feel of well loved leather. “You have a nice house.”

 

“I’m rather partial to it myself.” She moves about her kitchen with ease. The counters are a dark marble, the wall behind the small dining set panels of cherry wood. She flicks the light above the stove on, content with being mostly in the dark. It soothes her like it soothes him; gives them somewhere to hide, to tuck into so they can observe. “How do you want it?”

 

“With two sugars.” He doesn’t show his sweet tooth often. “No milk.” He props his hip against the dining table to watch her, body loose. This house carries a soft air of familiarity despite how he’s never been here before. It feels safe and warm. Comforting. It has more to do with the woman who lives here than the architecture, but he feels like the tight, cosy space is helping.

 

“Going to take a while.” She turns the pot on and a few moments later, the sound of the pot percolating fills the room. “Let’s go sit.”

 

They settle on the couch and she tucks her legs up underneath herself, afghan spread across her lap. She picks up the book closest to her and they fall into an easy conversation on the history of mountain ash, pondering the effect of the rowans berries. She scribbles on a notepad as they work out an experiment.

 

Somehow he ends up kissing her, stubble scraping against her cheek as he angles his head the right way, lips warm over hers. She makes a soft sound of agreement and then he’s on top of her, pressing her lightly into the couch cushions. They share slow kisses as the coffee pot gurgles in the background, hips rocking together without any real urgency. She tastes good.

 

She tastes like warmth and leftover smoke, but it’s _fresh_ and gentle and he finds he doesn’t mind that much as memories begin to get replaced.

 

The fire crackles merrily in the hearth and Derek doesn’t flinch.


	4. Day Four

_Four_

“Don’t.” He growls when she trails her fingers down the back of his neck. “I _can’t_.” He adds, shoulders hunching over. Whatever type of ‘bane the latest round of Hunters hit him with isn’t wearing off. It isn’t killing him either. What it’s _doing_ is making him almost unable to resist the lull of the moon. Derek prides himself on his ability to shift at will, the moon nothing more to him than a reminder, where she’s a master to lesser wolves. He’s pulled himself from wolfsbane induced death more than once, but...

 

Losing control on the full moon. He’ll massacre everyone. _Everyone_. And Scott’s off at college; there won’t be anybody here to stop him except Chris Argent, and the man will be well within his right to do so in the way he _will_ see fit. “I need to _go_.” He snarls at her, trying to gentle his clawed hand when he pushes her to the side. Only she doesn’t budge. Of course she doesn’t – when does she ever do as he asks? “Angie.” He hisses, voice tapering off to a deep timbre. “ _Angie._ ”

 

He’s only vaguely aware of the fact that he’s rock hard. He becomes just that bit more aware when her hand curls over him, thumb pressing under the head, fingers still over his pants. “Derek.” She says, and she’s using her logical doctors voice. Smooth, cool. Calm and confident. He snarls. “You can’t go anywhere. You know you’re on the edge right now, if you walk out this door you _know_.” If he walks out the moon will be all over him, and he _can’t_.

 

He whines, high in the back of his throat, fangs elongating. “I’m going to hurt you.” He tells her. And it’s not a promise, or a threat, but a _regret_. Sincere and pained. “I can’t _help_ it.”

 

“You’re not going to hurt me.” She says, breezily. “Do you trust me, Derek?”

 

He looks at her like she’s grown two heads. “What?”

 

“Do. You. Trust me. Derek?” She enunciates, voice low as her eyebrows rise. “Well?” She asks again when he stares at her, jaw slack around a mouthful of fangs. He nods, unable to talk around the wolfish mouth. “Then I need you to go up to my bedroom, alright?” They’re only at her house so she could pick at the bullet wounds on his back – they’re closed now, all healed up.

 

The healing process, the blood pulsing through him, it’s only making the ‘bane that much stronger.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s crawling onto her bed, rutting lightly at the air. He presses his face to her pillows and _snarls_ when he hears her come in. “You have to lay down now. On your back, please.” She speaks to him in a tone that makes her words feel like an afterthought. The alpha in him is enraged; the leftover beta simpers, and wonders what it’s done wrong. Still; she smells good, and that good smell is coming closer. There’s no reason not to obey. He sprawls on his belly, rolling over onto his back with effort.

 

She snaps a thin strip of leather into her palm before nudging his prone arms up above his head. “Is this alright?”

 

“Don’t.” He grits out. She starts to pull away and he shakes his head. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

 

She lays a palm on his chest, nodding at him. “You won’t.” She ties his wrists quickly, efficiently. “This is laced with mountain ash. You’ll be unable to move your arms.” She steps back to admire her handy work. “And I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to help you, just like how I was helping you downstairs.” With the wounds. “I’m going to undo your pants now.”

 

Her voice is grounding, now that it’s directed solely on him. It gives him an anchor in the haze of his mind, and he clings to her quiet direction, unable to do much more. His arms do feel like lead and he can just barely flex his fingers when he tries. It’s an odd feeling, one that sits uneasily in his chest until his jeans part and her hand slips inside, freeing his cock and balls from denim and cotton. “That’s good.” She tells him, stroking his chest again. “You still with me Derek?” He moans in reply, wiggling his hips into the air. “I know.” And she does sound sympathetic.

 

Her eyes settle on him; his chest and face are flushed red with arousal, skin almost glowing with the heat of it. The head of his dick is an angry looking purple, and he’s hard enough that he smacks flat against his own stomach, twitching in the cool air of her room. She likes the thought of having him tied and at her mercy, though, so she strips without a second thought. “You won’t be able to shift any further. Not with the mountain ash.” There’s not enough there to hurt him, only enough to keep him at bay. Keep him where they _both_ need him to be.

 

Angelique tears the foil condom packet with her teeth, telling him softly that she’s going to put it on him now. His neck arches off the bed, red eyes trying to focus on what she’s doing. “Just relax Derek.” And he _does_ seem more relaxed. The fangs are almost completely gone, ears rounded and human, and the red is gradually fading from his vision. “That’s good. We’re good.” He’s more human now and it makes her feel a little better as she tosses a leg over his hips to straddle him.

 

She knows what this wolfsbane is doing. It’s setting fire to his blood, making him ache for release. The full moon isn’t helping, trying to drag the wolf out. Combined, they’re trying to reduce him to a mess of instinct.

 

Which is fine. Angelique is human, but humans are animals too. She has no problem giving into her... _baser_ instincts. She tells him when she’s about to push down, but he can feel her. He tries to arch with the movement and she braces a hand on his shoulder, letting her eyes close as she sits until he’s balls deep inside of her.

 

It feels different from this angle, like he can go deeper. Its borderline uncomfortable but the wrecked look on his face, the way his arms are trying to stain, that makes it worth it. “Fuck, Derek.” She mutters, leaning back. Her hands brace on his thighs as she starts to roll her hips, feeling the burn in her own legs where she’s working double time to ride him. It feels _good_. Better still when he manages to meet her pace, his hips snapping up with more force than she was aware he’d have like this.

 

She’s leaving nail marks in his flesh that will be gone when they wake up.

 

That doesn’t exactly bother her either. She knows that he’ll let her put them back.


	5. Day Five

_Five_

Angelique grimaces lightly at the high-pitched laughter, turning wide eyes to the little Dove perched on her couch. The child is only two, and she’s very small – dainty. She _is_ adorable, but Angelique works with teenagers for a reason outside the supernatural realm. She has absolutely no idea how to handle small children.

 

She is an only child. Her mother and her grandmother are _both_ been only children. There are no cousins or nieces or nephews to look after and now, being part of a pack...she’s a little at a loss. Dove is their first cub – as Derek insists on calling her, no matter how ridiculous it sounds – and surprisingly, she belongs to Lydia and Jackson. Allison is pregnant with her first, though, and the thought of more babies makes Ang a little light headed.

 

The McCall couple is having _twins_.

 

They’ve been asked to babysit as Lydia is keenly aware of how much Derek actually _enjoys_ being around kids. For as serious as he can seem, they sometimes forget that he comes from a big family with a lot of noise. The wolf inside yearns for family and having pack pups has made him nearly ecstatic. Angelique still swears that he was more protective over Lydia than Jackson had been, when she was pregnant. He and Scott are currently tied for who annoys Allison the most, though. She’s fairly certain the huntress is keeping a vial of mountain ash on her person now. She knows for certain that Stiles has ashed the McCall house and kicked Scott out on several occasions.

 

It shouldn’t be as hilarious as it is. _Nothing_ is easy when you live with wolves. Their protective instinct is almost terrifyingly fierce.

 

Derek’s crooning draws her out of her thoughts. He’s crouched low in front of the couch, the deep rumbling noise coming from deep in his chest. The noise seems to lull Dove, and she reaches for the alphas nose with bright, inquisitive eyes focused on her face. She looks like her mother, although she has Jackson’s eyes, and Angelique knows from experience that the girl has that soft baby smell still clinging to her.

 

She coos at the alpha, sounding very much like the precious bird she’s been named after. She talks to him, too, a mindless babble of semi words that don’t make sense to anyone, but that Derek listens to attentively. He nods at the parts where she pauses, like he knows he has to agree with whatever her young mind is thinking of.

 

It’s adorable.

 

“She’s not going to bite, you know.” He tells Angelique as they move about the kitchen. Dove is nestled safely on his hip, trying to grab at everything within reach. He’s patient as he wrestles a spatula from her hands, tossing Angelique a smile as she slices apples. “Not yet, anyway. Give her a few years.” He jostles the pup a bit just to hear her squeal with laughter, cheeks tinted pink with her delight.

 

“We don’t know if she’ll be a werewolf yet.” Angelique tells him, setting their lunch on a platter.

 

“Doesn’t matter. She’s perfect.” He hefts the child up to nose at her belly, grinning to himself as she wiggles. “She has an alpha, if she does become a wolf.” He sets her back on his hip, using his free hand to cup Angelique’s cheek. “And she has you, Deaton and Stiles if she has that _spark_.” That little bit of magic that her mother may have passed down to her, the flicker of fire inside.

 

“And if she’s neither?”

 

“Then there’s Chris, John and Allison to teach her how to shoot straight.” The alpha declares, decisively.

 

Angelique hums, amused. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” She squawks in surprise as she finds herself with an armful of toddler. “Derek!” She hisses, struggling to right the child so she doesn’t _drop_ her.

 

Derek pops an apple slice into his mouth and starts walking to the living room with the platter. “You’ll be fine.”

 

“I’m going to drop her!”

 

“It’s not that hard, just don’t think about it Angie.”

 

“Not that hard? Don’t think about it? Derek, she is a _person_.”

 

“Exactly. You like people.” The alpha sounds like he’s laughing at her, and trying to hide it. Poorly. She grinds her teeth and adjusts Dove again, stalking after him towards the living room.

 

“She’s a _little_ person, Derek. This is not my strong point.”

 

She tries to hand the girl back, but finds that two grubby hands have made a very tight, very painful nest in her hair. She sits stiffly, child in her lap, and takes a deep breath. She can _do_ this. She fights with werewolves on a regular basis. She can handle a two year old girl who may or may not be made of magic or fangs. Everything will be _fine_.

 

For once in her life, her prediction is true; everything does go fine.

 

They eat their lunch, then play in the shallow woods behind Angelique’s house, that old dog of hers eager to lick at grubby baby-cheeks. Derek has both eyes on the child and both ears on their surroundings, and it’s _nice_. They make a pile of leaves and play in them until Dove’s bright eyes are foggy with sleep. The girl tugs at Angelique’s skirt and mumbles _up_ , until the woman stoops down low to scoop her up. She’s loose limbed from being tired, rather than the ball of endless energy she always seems to be. Like this, she fits snug against Angelique’s chest, head tucked onto her shoulder, little legs clinging at her waist. It feels nice, and warm, and Ang glances at Derek with surprise in her eyes.

 

He’s watching her. His own face holds the quiet warmth reserved for moments like this one, moments of calm. There’s a hint of longing there and it hurts her to know that he’ll never ask about children. That she’ll never bring it up.

 

For now, they have a Dove. Soon, they’ll have two more. It should be enough for now, she muses, as she heads for the house. The three settle into the couch and watch the fire crackle. The pup sleeps happily between them, one hand tucked into Derek’s, and both feet stretched across Angelique’s lap.


	6. Day Six

_Six_

 

She backs away from him with a skip to her step, eyes bright with laughter. “You’re a little frisky today, what’s going on?” Her voice is rich with her amusement and she twists her hair back into a ponytail, continuing to move away from him. She’s walking around the coffee table, watching the alpha stalk her in circles.

 

“First day of spring.” He offers, flashing a quick grin at her as he bounds over the back of the couch. There’s still a table separating him, and they both know it won’t do anything to stop him if he decides to pounce. She’s glad that he’s humoring her for now.

 

“Werewolves don’t go into heat.” She reminds him, chewing on her lower lip. He gets like this sometimes; sort of playful, with that hint of danger lurking below his chuckles. She can forget he’s a fierce killing machine when he lets himself act like a puppy. She never forgets he’s all _man_ , though, and she feels her underwear dampen as she sees his eyes darken. He’s in _that_ sort of mood. “Catch me.” She tells him as her muscles coil, ready to sprint.

 

He gives her a full grin – mouth full of shark teeth, eyes full of promise. “Run.”

 

She does. She doesn’t bother going for the stairs, flinging herself full tilt out the back door instead. This is fun for her.

 

She’s barefoot, and she’ll regret that later. For now, she bounds over fallen trees and jagged roots, laughter echoing off the wildlife around her. There’s no one else for miles around; o one to hear her shriek with happiness when Derek bowls into her with the force of a small freight train, twisting them around so he lands first. Hard enough to make his jaw click shut with a snap, teeth splitting his lip. His tongue flicks over the wound and she watches, curiously fascinated as the cut knits itself back together effortlessly.

 

“Caught me.” She croons, arching her body against his. He growls at her, and she snorts in his face, drawn in by the blood red of his eyes. He’s letting the wolf out to play. A little thrill shoots down her spine and settles between her legs – and she’s known him long enough, knows him _well_ enough, that there’s no shame when she rubs against his thigh, crooning in the back of her throat. When he bares his teeth, she gives him her neck, crying out wordlessly as he rolls her onto her back, pinning her to the forest floor.

 

They don’t do this often. Partially because he regrets it, but mostly because they have other things to worry about. Giving control to her wolf every now and again, letting him _take_ it from her. Sometimes it helps soothe both their worries, ease the stress of a long day.

 

Not to mention, of course, how fantastic the sex is.

 

His claws drag over her hips and shred her clothes, ripping the skirt and underwear off of her. He drops them into pile nearby, useless rags now. She pinches his nipple in retaliation, giggles mindlessly when he bites at her neck in response. “Stop ruining my clothes or you’re sleeping in the dog house.” She tells him, cuffing the back of his head as she spreads her legs, grinding herself against his abs. They slick with wetness, and she wonders how that smells to him – to have her scent rubbing out all over his body.

 

Derek growls again, irritated. She really _does_ have a dog house in her backyard. Deaton had – quite happily, the bastard – helped her build it eight months into their relationship. He ducks his head to suck a nipple into his mouth, extra careful to keep his fangs covered. She sighs for him and settles, spread out on a bed of fallen leaves and pine needles.

 

He likes it like this. Out in the wild where no one can see or hear, where there’s no chemical scent of cleaning. She’s sweating from the run, and he laps at her ribs, taking the salt off her skin. It’s just him, and her, and the living lullaby of nature. The wolf wants to roar their victory but the man is content to angle his hips down, to thrust hard and fast. They’re both happy with the way she cries out into the air, strong legs hooking around his waist to pull him _deeper_.

 

He fucks into her hard and fast, thrusts pushing them across the ground. He claws at the place beside her head, teeth bared in a snarl. Her eyes are half lidded, murky with want as she drags her nails down his back, ripping skin close to the base of his spine. One hand grabs his ass, gives him a smack, and it startles a lowly gravelled laugh out of his chest. “You’re impossible.” He groans around a mouth full of fangs, tossing his head back. “Impossible.”

 

“It’s not my fault.” She replies, breathless. She’s close. He can smell it, and feel it. He can’t pull the claws back in right now, but knows she’ll be fine with a few scratches. He cups her hips so he can thrust harder, focusing on the wet _smack_ of skin hitting skin. “You make me like that.” She’s shuddering through her first orgasm. First, because there’s no way in Hell he’s letting her get away from him that easily. He can do this all night if he wants.

 

He wants.

 

“I can’t make you _anything_.” He snarls into her ear, slowing his thrusts. “Roll over?” He pulls out with a wet noise, voicing the request as a question. She does as asked flicking her ponytail over her shoulder and peering at him one eye. She arches her ass into the air and widens are stance.

 

“Well you can make me come again, can’t you?” She asks as a challenge, and he growls, slotting himself over her.

 

“I can make you do that.” He agrees.


	7. Day Seven

_Seven_

 

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, propping himself in the doorway. He’s smiling faintly, loose limbed and relaxed.

 

“I’m waltzing.” Angelique replies, arms held out to an invisible partner. “What does it look like I’m doing?” There’s music bubbling lowly from the speakers, filling the room with quiet, classical noise.

 

“It looks like you’re being ridiculous.”

 

“I’m French. I like dancing, good food, and wine.” Her hair is twirled into a bun, high atop her head. He can see the glint o bobby pins at her temples and fights down the urge to run his hand through them, make them scatter all across the floor.

 

“You’re _Canadian_.”

 

“ _French_ Canadian.” She corrects, twirling close and holding a hand out. “Dance with me. I’ll look less ridiculous, and you can rest easy knowing your fiancé isn’t silly.” She taps her high heeled foot impatiently, eyebrows raised at him.

 

The word fiancé sends a jolt through him and, against his will, his body moves forward. “I don’t know how to waltz. _I’m_ going to look ridiculous.” He lets her move him where she wants, big hands curling loosely over her body. She’s wearing a slinky black dress and those heels that make the knot in her calf just that much more pronounced. Her _fuck me_ heels. He can see the bottle of wine chilling on the table, dark bottle glinting in the firelight.

 

Everything thing smells soft and warm. It smells _sexy_. Sexy enough even, that he forgets how stupid he looks in his leather jacket and jeans - the bad boy to her hot librarian. He doesn’t have to force himself not to relax, not with her. He lets his senses and his instinct take over, moving with her body. The awkward fumble of his feet settles into a smooth motion until they’re gliding around her living room, moving like silk. It feels intimate in a way that sex isn’t, close like he’s never been. They’re breathing the same air and moving as one, as a unit, and he’s never known that dancing could be like this.

 

They lose track of time as one song turns into another. Everything around them turns to a senseless stream of _quiet_. Eventually she breaks away to open her bottle, the ice halfway melted now. He takes in the sharp scent of berries, knows without having to look that she’s picked a rich Shiraz. She pours him a glass even thought it won’t do anything, and the taste is bitter on the underside of his tongue. He sips regardless and they watch each other, swaying in place as the music drones on.

 

He doesn’t know which one of them breaks first, but it doesn’t really matter. The wine glasses are discarded on the hearth and he’s holding her up with both hands over the curve of her ass, her legs hitched around his waist. Her _fuck me_ heels dig into his own butt, the tips of them biting into his flesh sharp enough to make him groan.

 

Derek lowers them to the floor, lays her out for himself. She’s a big fogged over from the drink and smiling openly at him as he kisses down her leg. He lifts it so he can mouth at the spot behind her knee, sink his teeth playfully into the muscle of her calf, feel the way it bunches under his mouth. He plays with her ankles before using his lips and tongue to help peel the straps of her heels away, tossing the shoe carelessly to the side once it comes free.

 

He gives her other leg the same treatment, groaning as she’s reduced to a quivering mess of want. There’s nothing rushed about this, as he takes the time to nose her unzipped dress off her shoulders, setting his teeth to every inch of skin exposed. The wine may not affect him, but he’s drunk off the smell and feel of her, the way her body reacts to his.

 

He wonders at where he’d be if he hadn’t made those first botched attempts at asking her out. Those thoughts try to lead him down a darkened path so he plasters his mouth over her black lace panties, lapping at the fabric there until its dripping wet.

 

They come undone together on her worn carpet, panting softly to the coo of music. It smells like sex, and berries, and fire, and _warmth_. It’s heady, intoxicating, and he presses his forehead close to her chest when his orgasm rips through him, body shuddering as he sinks human nails into the fabric below them, mouthing senselessly at her breasts.

 

They slide from their high easily, a tangled mess of limbs. He forces himself to fetch the wine and a blanket, laying out across the floor with her as they settle into more drinks. They don’t bother with the glasses, and instead share the bottle between deep, heady kisses.


	8. Day Eight

_AN: I have had this entire series written out for about a week now, and the whole thing planned several weeks in advance. Maggy, I really hope you’ve enjoyed this series so far, and that you’ll especially like the final part. Happy Hanukkah!_

_Eight_

Angelique Morrell is not a stupid woman, nor does she know anybody personally who would ever accuse her of being such. She prides herself on her ability to think on her feet and to be strong where strength is needed, to listen when an ear should be loaned. She is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and very proud of that fact.

 

It takes a special sort of person to be as utterly pigheaded as the ones who are following her. She’s been aware of them for over a week and knows they’re part of the _other_ pack. They showed up days after Erica’s second child had been born, which was both a stupid mistake and smart tactile advantage. The wolves were protective at best – a newly mothering shewolf was deadly at worst. Still; they hadn’t done much to the pack aside from stick their noses where they weren’t wanted.

 

It had only made the pack tighter. They’ve drawn together as a single unit, pups pulled out of school for the time being. They’re camped out between Derek’s apartment and the Stilinski house, not a second of time where there isn’t heavily armed protection. Which is smart, on the packs part. Protect the weakest links – and Dove, for as good a shot she is, is a weak link. No matter how much she will protest that fact.

 

Still; it leaves the adults open to attack.

 

Angelique is not just an adult. She is the wife – mate – of the alpha wolf of Beacon Hills. She is a prime target.

 

It’s a testament to Derek’s faith in her, that his betas aren’t tailing her at the moment. It’s a show of her own inner strength that she doesn’t scream when she’s grabbed from behind, filthy cloth covering her mouth and eyes. She puts up enough of a struggle that she doesn’t seem suspicious, feeling proud when her elbow connects with a wolf’s throat, the way he chokes on it. She’s dragged into the back of a vehicle, a van, she assumes.

 

They don’t bother to tie her hands. She can’t help but feel sorry for a pack of wolves so uncoordinated, so utterly arrogant that they think a human can do them no harm. She thinks of Chris and his guns for a moment, fighting back the laughter that she knows will only irritate the wolves. Humans are very much capable of harming, when they need to.

 

And really, did they think she became Derek’s wife by being weak?

 

Angelique doesn’t bother trying to pay attention to the twists and turns. By this point, Derek will have been alerted to her not showing up at Stiles’ for dinner. He’ll know that something’s wrong, even more so when she doesn’t answer her phone. Which they were smart enough to leave in her car, although her purse is still over her shoulder.

 

Eventually she’s tosses unceremoniously onto a chair, the cloth sack over her head ripped off. The wolves – and she can tell now that they are all betas – leave her alone with another woman.

 

She has dark hair and pale skin, and her eyes glow red when she finally turns towards Angelique. “You’re the Alpha’s bitch?” It’s not a term used to offend. The other alpha is stating what she believes to be fact. Angelique doesn’t dignify it with a response, gripping her purse in both hands. It looks like a nervous gesture.

 

It’s not.

 

“I can smell the metal in your purse.” The alpha says, voice rich with laughter as she sashays across the room. “Do you think your little toy is going to help you? It takes a lot more than a simple bullet to stop one of my kind. How can you not know that?” Her hands curl around Angelique’s neck, fingers stroking the hair away from her skin, caressing her like one might a lover. “Did your Alpha never teach you? I guess he thinks you’re safe, hiding away in that school all day. Does he think you’re not good enough to protect outside of it? He has people watching the Martin girl, but not you?”

 

“You’ve heard the saying about assumptions making an ass out of you?” Angelique replies calmly, staring straight ahead. “I’m afraid to say that you’re wrong with your hypothesis, but if I were to give you grade, you’d at least get a D, rather than a fail. I can tell you put a lot of effort into that speech. I’d clap, but my hands are otherwise occupied at the moment.” She brushes the woman’s hands from her flesh, rising and meeting no resistance. She takes several steps forward then turns, meeting her head on.

 

She looks utterly amused, the alpha.

 

“Derek, for all of his faults, and believe me when I tell you he has many, is not wrong in his way of leaving me to my own devices. I am more than capable of taking care of myself when put against an egotistical puppy that’s going on a power trip.” She eyes the other woman’s face, smiling humorlessly. “Or a midlife crisis. Whichever you’d prefer, alpha.”

 

The alpha bares her teeth in a smile.

 

“Well?” Angelique asks, setting her purse on a nearby table, gun laid out beside it. “Come on, then.”

 

The alpha attacks.

 

She barrels into Angelique and it feels like being hit with a brick wall. All wolves are incredibly strong. Alpha’s more so – still. This one in particular has threatened the core of their pack, their _puppies_ , and while not a mother herself. Angelique is the alpha female of _her_ pack.

 

 _No one_ threatens _her_ puppies.

 

She doesn’t stand a chance against the other woman physically, so she rolls with the tackle. They slide across the floor in a mess of limbs and out of spite, she sinks her teeth into the woman’s collarbone, tasting blood as her human teeth sink into flesh. It’s disgusting and enchanting all at once, and she revels in the outraged cry the alpha gives.

 

She doesn’t have to be stronger. She only has to be faster, smarter, and she’s always been both. Her heel connects painfully with the alpha’s nose, shattering it. Blood spills onto the floor, more so when claws sink into Angelique’s thighs, ripping through her skin like butter as she heaves herself towards the desk. The gun she’d discarded for her grapple connects coldly with her palm and she twists, firing a shot into the other woman’s chest.

 

The alpha laughs around her mouthful of blood until she realizes that she’s _hurting_. “What-“

 

“Mountain ash. Fascinating, isn’t it? It doesn’t carry the same smell as wolfsbane. Really, it doesn’t carry any smell at all.” The second shot hits her left leg, the third, her right arm. It’s gotten past the need to kill and entered dark waters. She tosses the gun aside and lunges, taking the alpha down with her weight alone.

 

Pumped full of ash as she is, she’s no stronger than the average human woman.

 

Angelique’s merely evened the playing field out a little.

 

They fight _hard_ , hitting and clawing at each other on the cold concrete floor. The betas won’t enter the room after their alpha screams at them to leave and within minutes, the world explodes into a flurry of noise. She hears the telltale roar of Derek, enraged, and the squealing whine of one of the opposing betas falling under her alpha’s jaws. She takes pleasure in the knowledge that these wolves will soon be well out of Hale territory.

 

They’ll all be dead.

 

She’s careful not to let the alpha bite her as they exchange blows, both of them exhausted and weak as the adrenaline wear off. When the door caves in under Boyd’s girth, Angelique lets herself be dragged away from the alpha, contents herself with watching the ash eat at the woman’s insides, with watching her die. She leans into Boyd’s chest as he holds her close, keeping an ear out for Derek.

 

“Took you long enough.” She says, tone light and joking as the female alpha lets out a final, heart wrenching whine and Derek slips into the room.

 

Her husband glances at the gore around him, eyebrows raised and lips pulled into a faint smile. “I knew you could handle it.”

 

She slips out of Boyd’s grasp to brush her bloodied mouth lightly over Derek’s. “I know. Thank you.”

 

“Don’t. This was all you.”

 

He sounds proud, and she tucks her head under his chin, half-listening to the rest of the pack still fighting outside. She lets the happiness she feels rush over her in a soothing wave understanding that in risking everything, she’d solidified her place in pack.


End file.
